Aired-Out

Sept 27 2017

As if all the windows

were thrown open wide,

the roller-blinds snapped tight,

and the heavy doors swung freely

hinges creaking

in a stiff north-wind,

summer's muggy house

is aired-out over-night

in a cleansing fall.

There is a thinness

to dry October air.

And even the rain sits more lightly

on the trees and ground,

now that summer's green lushness

has shrivelled and browned.

Seasoned

with the sweetness of hay,

the earthy essence

of exhausted soil,

wood-smoke's acrid edge,

so even the scorned human nose,

has awakened to smell.

And a clarity of light

that makes the world feel eternal,

the way you remember home

from when you were young

and it was all so simple

as to seem preordained.

When you were impatient for time to pass

and never looked back

or gave much heed

to winter.

There was a last muggy blast of summer, then a cleansing NW wind – when I did open all the windows and doors – and now the acrid edge of wood-smoke is making my nose twitch and eyes itch. Fall is so distinctively in the air, you would know it with your eyes closed. Except then you'd miss the clarity of light that makes a clear autumn day so extraordinary.

This poem began with the smell of wood-smoke, and ended with thoughts of nostalgia. Because no season is better suited to that bitter-sweet emotion.

I think the seasons here can also be seen as metaphors for the ages of man. And that this poem is in the voice of an older person, on whom winter weighs more heavily – both figuratively and literally – than it ever did on the young.

Absence

Sept 23 2017

We celebrate much,

the coming of age

the coming together

the coming of luck.

At the festive table

in congregation

one-on-one.

But in the coming apart, the coming undone

we are mostly on our own.

In disillusioned love.

In disenchantment, rumination, self-doubt.

In grumbling discontent

and the slow accumulation of loss.

The absence of things

when we're alone with our thoughts.

Like the sliver of moon

in silver light,

its darkened disc

the mind's eye completes.

How odd

that in solitude

we find ourselves most present.

One, among the billions, in this hyper-connected world

where seclusion is hard,

and the dimming of light

the muting of sound

the wanting of touch

both shelter us

and cut us off.

To be alone, but not lonely

comes less naturally

to a social animal

than a solitary creature.

The hunted, in faceless herds.

Flocks of birds, darting

in telepathic flight.

Vast schools of fish

flashing as one.

And the predator, running down its prey.

Or the ambush hunter's

exquisite stillness,

eyes glowing, muscles sprung;

crouching in scrub

under cover of dark.

Knowing

that more often than not

the hunter goes hungry

while the hunted lives on.

I set out to write a poem on the theme of “absence”. As in old age, and its succession of loss, we think of absence as a lack, a burden, a cost. Or as in isolation, the absence of community.

But absence also brings to mind solitude and quiet, the kind of peace that is not only hard in this culture of constant stimulation and connection, but one we seem scared of. How often do we turn up the music, instead of risk being alone with our thoughts? There is the difference between being alone and feeling lonely. There is the competing instinct between our innate social nature, and our sense of self; between extroversion, and the interior life.

I think the most interesting line might be the wanting of touch. I like the way wanting pulls in two directions: the simple lack, coupled with desire. I like the leap from the physical act of being cloistered in silence and darkness – in the two preceding lines – to the more visceral sensation of touch.

Wolves hunt in packs and lions in prides, held together by bonds of kinship and territorial drive. But I think most predators are solitary animals. And while we think of predators as apex creatures, it's instructive to know that most hunts end in failure, despite the hunter's superior strength and speed and lethality. It's their weaker prey who prevail, by virtue of the protection of numbers and the greater good. ...An argument in favour of being more social, from a congenital loner!

Rufus

Sept 8 2017

The pup is like a plush toy,

plump, on stubby legs

she will too soon grow out of,

and into the powerful stride

of long and lean.

But for now, she runs as if tightly sprung,

keen to keep up with the big dogs

who mostly ignore her,

forbearing, and dignified

as she eagerly nips and jumps.

I walk behind her on the trail,

her expressive tail erect

bum-hole, round and pink

bouncing up and down with her.

She has two speeds – all-out, and full-stop,

crashing into sleep

that is mostly deep, and undisturbed

but where she sometimes also runs,

nose twitching

thrashing legs.

It is a golden autumn

and we frequently stop on the path;

me, lying in the grass

the big dogs wandering.

And the pup, curled-up

asleep on my chest.

My “new” pup recently turned 1. As I was writing this, I realized that this was the first poem I'd penned about her. I think because I'm very leery of dog poems in general: they're too easy, too sentimental and self-indulgent. And probably also because it feels as if I said all that needs to be said in numerous poems about her predecessor, Skookum. But Rufus is, as are all of us, unique.

I was reminded of her uniqueness, as well as our early days, while on a recent walk with a friend, when I found myself pointing out how I used to fondly call her “dumpling bum-hole”: both because of her puppyish physique, and how she carries her tail at a jaunty angle up. So I thought this was a good chance to celebrate, as well as memorialize, that golden autumn of our first year together. (The bum-hole is still happily visible. The plumpness, though, has turned into strong muscle and bone.)

Middling

Aug 26 2017

I have a vague recollection

of regression to the mean,

the zero-sum game

of averages.

The scorching day

followed by the balm of night.

December's dark cave

summer's lingering light.

The one you loved

who also left.

I suppose there is consolation in this,

nothing too high or low

a chance at redemption.

Except that nature is all process,

never settling

at some hypothetical steady-state.

The hurricane force

and the eye of the storm

may cancel out,

but still, destruction reigns.

Or evolution's see-saw race,

predator and prey

in lock-step,

whip-sawed from famine to feast.

Perhaps this is what Eden means;

the ideal zero-sum

of Adam and Eve

the apple, the snake,

of ignorance and bliss

and the world unchanged.

Where the young stay young

and there is no suffering

and the lion lies down with the lamb.

But where, in the absence of death

no one hears a newborn cry,

and there is no chance

at reinvention.

Stuck,

which is how I feel

most of the time.

And will probably end up middle-aged, and little done;

muddling through, as usual.

So I sigh, and accept my mediocrity.

The fantasies

I dare indulge;

the paralyzing fear

I will fail, and be judged.

This poem began with the smell of autumn in the air. August 26 is awfully early for this, I know. But it's been a cool wet summer, the ferns are already turning brown, and the last three nights have been very cold. I was thinking about how far north we live, and how as you ascend latitude, the lengthening summer days are so exquisitely balanced by equally lengthening winter nights. It's as if the easy summer exacts its payment: a zero sum game, where regression to the mean is the law. This struck as a promising approach to a poem about the change of season, the kind of poem that can so easily slip into predictable cliche.

As usual, of course, the writing gods took over from there. The best way I can describe this process is as a kind of critical stream-of-consciousness: like taking dictation, as the words mysteriously appear; but at the same time listening and shaping the piece. That it ends up as melancholy, self-critical, and defeatist as it does says something about the stenographer. ...But that, as always, is up to the reader to decide.

(I hasten to add that I'm not looking ahead to middle age; I'm more and more looking back! On the other hand, who says this is autobiography? And anyway, one is always allowed poetic licence, and in this case “middle-aged” has the perfect connotation. I'll also point out, once again, my curious penchant for Biblical references: odd, I know, coming from a fundamentalist atheist such as me!)